


mistakes like this

by internationalbitchboy



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Art school Michael Mell, Bullying, Closeted Character, Discount smut, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Michael Mell Needs a Hug, Music school Rich Goranski, Rich is kinda mean, Sloppy Makeouts, Song fic, They're in the bathroom lol, Trans Michael Mell, dorm au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29321421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/internationalbitchboy/pseuds/internationalbitchboy
Summary: Maybe it's the worsening state of constant shoving in the halls, or the offhand comments getting meaner, but Michael's beginning to think that Richard Goranski's obsession with picking on him is becoming concerning. So they dish it out...in the washroom, things take that usual cliché turn just as they do in any teenager written online fic-story.
Relationships: Rich Goranski/Michael Mell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	mistakes like this

**Author's Note:**

> HI, so this is a dorm au, they live in the same high school dorms and their schools are near each others. Very much inspired by my dorms because i am also a sad high school student yearning, so we have this mess.  
> michael goes to art school cause i decided, also hes trans even if its not that important to the story, just want yall to know that michael mell was never and will never be cis  
> im not sure if i should do like another part but i probably wont, idk how to write this stuff so dont crucify me

There's a certain charm that dormitory washrooms carry. Whether it's the leftover food someone left in the sinks or the fact that there's never any warm water left, but after a while, it rings like home, a home away from home, or whatever they say.

The same charm can turn and twist into bitter and foul scenarios when there's an invisible target on your back, or maybe your shoulder. Michael couldn't guess, it varies really, usually a punch to the shoulder is worse than being shoved from behind, but whenever the ground catches your fall there's no comparison. Maybe all of these thoughts are a futile attempt to distract himself from the dread pooling in his stomach, the water cooling his hands wasn't washing away the apprehension waging inside of him. Homes weren't supposed to feel like this. There shouldn't be a constant mixture of phobias swimming, splashing water, dripping...It doesn't matter. The water stinging his eyes doesn't distract from the click of the door next to him and no matter the sting, it won't hurt as much as whatever incoming punch lands. Maybe it's enough to cover up the wound in his ego when insults, threats or whatnot overtake the sound of the running water. 

The door shuts. Michael turns to leave, and Rich is in his way. There's a sense of danger flashing from around him, trepidation itching in his fingers and reminders to look away. He can't look Rich Goranski in the eye, that'd be an invitation. Michael's not a big religious person, but if there was anytime where he prayed for luck it'd be now, but again, it doesn't matter. He gets shoved back when he attempts to move past him. Standing there, proudly, in all of his five-foot nothing of glory, Rich Goranski blocks off Michael's only exit. 

"Don't ignore me." There's a hand to his shoulder and he's further inside, his feet are giving out. "Cat got your tongue?" Another shove back and Michael feels as if he's giving in. If he sat it out, if he gave no reaction maybe Rich would leave him alone. Would it be that easy? It hasn't worked yet but...hundred times the charm, right? Or better yet, Rich would get pissed off and hit twice as hard. That seems more probable. "You're really pissing me off now." There it is.

Michael looks up, well...looks down into Rich's eyes. He lets them wander. It doesn't matter, it never did. Harmless high school fun, boys will be boys, it's always like that, isn't it. "Do you need something?" That would've sounded badass if Michael's voice didn't tremble, or if his eyebrows didn't push back into concern. If there weren't waves and splashes of panic behind Michael's hickory eyes.

"Yeah. Yeah I did." To leash out his anger? Frustrations building up? Or just for the hell of it? His fists felt bare, he needed to hit something...and Michael needs a hit. Preferably from a joint, but he'd take another bruise, no problem. The dehumanizing factor would wash away after a while, then these hits would be the only things making him _feel_ human again. If he hurt physically, he'd be distracted from what's on the inside. So he doesn't back down when Rich fixes his posture, he's scared of the first hit, he always will be, but it'll end. It will wash away...

"What do you want?" His impracticality makes this a vain statement. His vulnerability picks apart whatever threat he meant to front with. And caramel is supposed to be sweet, smooth and easy to swallow, but behind Rich's sepia toned eyes there's a fire, roaring, scorching and Michael feels the heat there. Impassioned by fury and driven by pure enmity. Michael's gonna get burned. 

"What do I want?" A bite in his voice makes Michael take another step back on his own accord. "You're so fucking gross-" A crack in Michael's façade, he swallows his pride and tries to leave again, but the pushback was harsher this time, and he feels his feet surrender under his weight, the impact of falling on the cold, wet ground helped him realize what had happened. Swiftly, he looks up, his lips part and he can't tell if his eyes gloss over because of the initial shock of the fall or because now his clothes are wet. He'd just washed his hands, and now they're grimed and wet and- "Disgusting piece of shit-" Even with how quiet Rich was, each word added weight and Michael feels the tears inching in closer, why can't he fight back? "I bet you like getting pushed around, thrown to the dirty floor...fucking fairy-" Michael takes his time getting up. Embarrassed by the moisture his clothes soaked up...It wasn't bad, but it was there, and Michael is close to imploding on himself, his face gets red with anger and he steps up to Rich, if only a mechanism to push down the tears.

"Leave me alone-" The quake in his voice made it apparent he can't yell without breaking down, he's holding onto his last shred of patience, his last shred of stability. "I-I don't have time for this bullshit." So he tries leaving again, and to his surprise he reaches the door, for only a moment, but the pull from behind is harsh and he can't tell if he's collapsing on his own or if Rich had completely lost it. 

"Oh you don't have the time?" This time the target on his back was hit, the porcelain wall bearing it's impact as he collided against it, he felt the air in his lungs shorten. "You don't have the fucking time?" Why'd he freeze up? Where's the bite Michael brought, why did he pause under the scrutiny of a five foot four personified version of anger? And why was the stench of alcohol overfilling his senses? "What're you too busy doing, huh?" He adds up the stammer in Rich's voice to the stench of alcohol. The way he positioned his hand next to Michael's head sent alarms down his spine, there's no way out now. "Talk to me, asshole!" 

"P-Please..." And there's the same vulnerability Michael displays like a vogue model, caving in on himself as a streak finally breaks loose and stains his cheek. Pooling over and embracing the humiliation that follows suit. Pleading as if it was the only option he held in his hands. Rich tenses up, Michael can see that. Was he not expecting the tears? Did he fail to realize how fragile Michael is, how fucking delicate and frail and...oh so fucking humiliated. The rocky inhale broke him into a sob and Rich collides his other hand with the wall.

"Stop fucking crying!" Rich yells this as if to reassure and comfort himself, Michael jumps at the sound. Rich swallows hard and his feet sway, he shouldn't have drank that much. The bitterness bites back and he catches himself before he slips up. "You don't gotta be so soft-" Now there's an air of hyperawareness, because of how neatly his hand presses down on Michael's shoulder, it's burning, it's on fire, Michael's shoulder is scorched and he wants to push away. Why were his words stopping at his throat...And why can't he look away from the fire inside Rich's eyes. It's clamorous and it's turbulent and even with the tears blurring his view he can mesmerize himself with them. Everything is tense, and heavy and Rich's breathing is wary.

"Headphones." Michael's in the present again. Rich spoke and the informality stung.

"M-Michael." And Rich knows. He knows it's Michael, but he'd take any chance to distance himself as far away as he can from those connections, _from that name_ , even knowing the name felt wrong because...When Rich looks at Michael, he feels wrong, amiss and astray. He feels warm and he feels...angry, yeah right. In what he wanted to be ever-present touches and smiles he takes out with hits, and punches and name-calling and...And now the barrier of self control is loose, there isn't a sobriety in his head for him to hold onto. The brink of what was acceptable to him was thinning out and wilting, and with how Michael stands in front of him, how accessible and defenseless he is, Rich feels himself giving into his deep-rooted urges. He's thinking with his head, he is...But a little differently.

"Michael." Rich mirrors his voice, and he leans in close enough to feel how shaky and uneven Michael's breaths are, to feel it against his skin, to intoxicate himself with something other than dirt-cheap beer. Intoxicate Michael with something other than laced up cannabis. The internal conflict inside him is sounding more and more distant, he focuses on Michael's sniffling. Dances with the confusion in the air, leading above again, keeping his palms firmly pressed to the ceramic tiles next to Michael's head. His focus dips in and out of consciousness. "Don't talk." The air around them is tightening, gripping at his throat and closing in his airways, it's warmer and it's hard to intake properly, Michael's face is on fire...

"I-I won't-" Not that he can, because Rich decides to break the barrier of personal space and flood Michael's senses with unfamiliarity and foreign emotions. There's awkward movement against his lips, and the taste of alcohol invades his mouth when he spaces them far enough for Rich's tongue. He doesn't know what to do with his hands and he doesn't know what to think or how to move. All he knows is he's wasting away his first kiss in the dormitory washroom with the guy that beats the shit out of him in the halls...And he's not angry about it. It's sloppy and it's clumsy and it's disheveled but Michael's not angry about it.

An internal sweltering inferno roars inside Michael's chest, the flames burn harsher when Rich places his knee in between Michael's thighs, how his hands travel down, and make sure to leave their mark when they grip onto his hips. He's not gentle, and Michael doesn't need him to be. They're both intoxicated, they're both young, dumb and frustrated and they need to numb themselves, Michael tells himself this to cope with the fact that the guy that would call him a 'faggot' was biting down on his lip and placing his hands, lingering and making Michael so goddamn aware, is there a way to make this informal? To make it unreal?

When they detach, Michael lets his eyes open first, bracing himself for a hit, for a slap, bracing his ego for anything. "Fuck." Rich's breath is persistent, his fingers dawdle and mingle around, sneaking underneath the red of Michael's shirt, engraving their feel in Michael's memory, imprinting each line, each print of the tips of his fingers. They stay and look at each other, brown bores into brown and there's a shift in Rich's position. He pulls back his hands as if pulling back on a dare, and they wrap around Michael's wrists and push against the wall, lifting, and going until they reach just where his head is. Rich looks as if he wants to speak, to talk...to yell, to insult, to fight, but there's this hunger that's encasing his eyes, swift and firm and Michael leans his head onto the tiles if only to cool his body down, it's pointless, because Rich's knee is persistent, and his grip on his hands was sending waves of mixed signals to Michael. 

But their lips meet again, harsher and...less awkward? Well no, it's still uncoordinated and messy, and they're clearly two inebriated seventeen year olds acting on their hormones, but the tension filled barrier is gone, Rich was testing the waters and this is like a full-dive. Acting on thoughts he's been and filthy glances, pushed down and buried under shoves in the hallway, slurs, and cheap alcohol. This hatred ingrained in him since he can remember, years of pushing down his instincts and the butterflies he'd kill off with ethanol and hook-ups with random girls. It's not that he didn't like girls, it's just that these girls weren't _Michael_. He pushes down harder at the revelation, his hands get antsy again, he allows Michael to move, for the expense of touch, placing his hands back underneath the cover of red clothes, he pulls back for a moment. Michael's lids are resting half way, opened enough to see Rich clutching at his sides, his hands blistering his skin, he feels exposed and he wants to hide away, and still he lets the touches reside, the calloused fingers, digits moving over past stories, slashes and discolorations on the surface of his body, exploring each crevice and grazing over the anguish on displayed physically, and he wants to scream because it's like he held the knife himself, because he hurt...hurts _Michael_. His teeth press down on the skin of Michael's neck, the stupid name stains his tongue and plagues his mind. Why the fuck does he care that Michael decided to cut himself? He's here to act on his own selfish accord, he doesn't and will not care about where Michael stood mentally, knowing full well he's partially the reason behind a lot of it.

The sound that slips from Michael's lips goes straight to his groin, and he can't tell if that initial fury he'd come in with was getting ferociously worse or if it was just his hormones playing tricks on him. He wants Michael to scream, but he _needs_ Michael to shut up. "Quiet," Why futile threats were his way to cope, your guess is as good as mine, but he knows he's far too deep now. This lights up a sense of bravery inside Michael, he doesn't know what to do with his hands, so instead he brings them up to Rich's face. At first they hover, stiffly positioned, since Rich still has his hands up his shirt, he tests any overstepping in his movements, and when he doesn't react, he finally lets his palms reside on the sides, careful in case there's any filth left, enticing Rich closer.

"Then shut me up." And now Rich feels like he's going insane, the line between rage and stability blurs fully, and he collides his lips to Michael's again. Imprudent and hasty and fired up. He can't hear him anymore, he can't look into the half-opened leisurely brown anymore, and the touch is beginning to hurt him, his nails have left their mark, and his hands leave the premises of Michael's battleground, patching up the scars in his mind, trying to forget, trying to forgive. This time, he preoccupies his hands with Michael's, pulling at the limbs which held him close, not ready to pull apart, he just needed them away, as informal as he can get with his tongue down someone's mouth. He plays with the idea of pinning them back above his head, but he needs to teach himself control, his fingers trace up to Michael's neck, and he entertains the thought. Michael should feel the way he feels, suffocated, and fighting for air, a lesson to treat his lungs better, for the stupid shit he inhales to serve as a memory. To close off his airways, a taste of his own medicine. He feels no pushback, he wraps his hands firmly around, feeling the hitch against him...the sounds are present in his ears, tuning in and out of his mind and he realizes something.

_He's never going to rid of the taste of Michael Mell on his tongue._

No matter the burn of the alcohol, no matter the taste of the lipstick, it will always _linger_. 

"Fuck," He rips away, with haste and panic. The sudden pang of sobriety hits with a cold shock. His eyes widened and almost contrasting Michael's heavy lids. His hands still wrapped in their positioning. "Fuck, shit." So his first instinct is to press down, and see as Michael's brown expands, from dulled and flustered to immediate panic. Michael lifts his hand, if only to ensure he's not at risk at losing his life, but Rich takes a moment before he backs down. When he pulls back his hands rush into his dirty blonde strands, immediately pulling at what he can. "Fuck!" 

"R-Rich..?" The attempt Michael made to patch whatever had just happened was shot down rapidly, with Rich's knuckle colliding with his cheek. Now we're back to normal. The hit was a bit harsher than Rich had intended, and the look of unfiltered shock Michael peered up with tugged inside his chest. But he doesn't back away, instead, he pulls Michael's stumbling body back up to eye-level by just the collar, pushing back up against the wall. 

"If you tell _anybody_ , you're fucking dead-" Urgency plays lead role, the strain in his vocal chords was enough of a pain to distract the fracture forming in his heart, stemming from how awfully _hurt_ Michael looked. "Do you understand?!" Michael nods in response, quick and jittery, avoiding looking into that fire again, but Rich lets loose, the grip on his collar lessening.

"I'm...Way too sober for this shit-" There's a few steps back, there's space in between, and the flames begin toning down, Michael can breathe again. Rich's eyes travel around, and he lands at the sink, cold water running down, he begins throwing some water in his face, a jolt of moisture to sober him up more. So he can think with his _actual_ head now. From the mirror placed above, he hovers over Michael's figure, how he takes off the glasses, to wipe at the build up of tears around his eyes with his sleeves, he readjusts them on his face and Rich turns off the tap. "Headphones," He turns to face him, the air around them tense, just as when he first walked in, strained and abruptly frigid and cold, conflicting with how warm it had been minutes ago. "Michael." Rich repeats, this gathers Michael's attention, for a moment their eyes meet, before Michael turns to wipe at his eyes. "I, fuck, I'm sorry." For a moment he considers walking back up, but there's warning signs, by just the way Michael flinches when Rich takes a step closer. His hand guarding at the injury. "I'm so sorry-" The handle of the door is his escape, his way out. The gap between the door frame expands and Rich takes his final glance of Michael for the night, uncomfortable and the build up in his stomach faltering.

"For everything." So he rushes out in the halls, the cold air wasn't helping with the discomfort pooling in his groin and it wasn't helping with the internal conflict that sparks when he realizes that the same stupid name is the only thing hanging on his tongue. Imprinted and warm and he can't taste anything else. Poorly made porno flicks and he'd steal some alcohol from Jake, and he'd shove down every thought of Michael beneath him as far as he could. But inside, the noises and the fire would dance for as long as they need, picking him apart, bare and humid. He knows he's angry, he's pissed as all hell, but that's nothing new, he's always mad, yet not once was it at Michael. The hatred he held inside was always aimed at himself, resentment indulged Michael because he woke up this part of Rich that he's been entombing since he was a kid, he was so open with himself, and Rich remembers the fire that lit up in his chest when news spread around the dorm that some art kid had hung up a pride flag in his room. Rich envied Michael, because no matter what he never tried to change himself, he never forced himself to be anything he wasn't and it didn't matter how hard he was hit, or how loud he was yelled at, or how many times someone hurled 'fag', 'fairy', or any creative insult his way. Rich looks at his hands, up above where he held them on Michael's chest, the incision wounds staining his skin, just how many secrets he held, and Rich wants to know them all. 

He wont try to reconcile, he's already upset he's going to spend months thinking about this endeavor, how he'd broken down everything he's built up...For _Michael Mell_. A mistake he won't forgive himself for.


End file.
